By Samuelle Jagonio || Illustration by Mavi Hipe

There was a knock at the door.

I remember it clearly—the way it cut through the faint hum of Bandila news playing on our old TV. I was tucked in bed, pretending to be asleep while my daddy-lo watched the evening news. That was our quiet ritual before sleep: me, half-awake under the blanket; him, half-listening to the anchors’ tired voices, sighing every now and then like the world had just disappointed him again.

Then came the second knock—louder, faster, almost desperate.

Daddy-lo, half-asleep and still in his worn sando, shuffled towards the noise, grumbling to himself. When he pulled the door open, what greeted him was not a poor, innocent neighbor in need of help, but the cool midnight air and the smell of rain-soaked soil. No one was there. Only the hiss of wind through the trees and the faint licking of a burning flame in the distance.

Then came the yelling, the trembling of the ground as neighbors rushed down the muddy road clutching their children and trudging their belongings. “The hospital,” one cried, catching the bewildered look on my lolo’s face, “It’s burning!” The sky still rumbled from the storm that had passed hours before, and the air lingered with the smell of ash, salt, and something else—something foul that clung to the air.

By dawn, the ashes had settled. Some swore it was the work of a sigben, a creature said to linger by the dead and dying, and what better place to feed on the scent of suffering than in a hospital? Others whispered of curses, of the storm as a sign that something evil had been unleashed upon us all.

The truth, however, was more mundane, more monstrous in its simplicity: the hospital was built on lies and cheap cement—hollow blocks and hollow promises held up a structure meant to heal. Corners were cut, funds disappeared, and years later, people still chose to believe in creatures rather than corruption. The sigben and other mythical creatures became the scapegoat for every tragedy, while the true monster—one with a name, an office, and a practiced smile—walked free among us. After all, it’s easier to fear a myth than to confront a man in a suit.

Now, a decade of silence later, the true horror has stepped into the light. The culprit, a well-loved politician with a polished smile—now in even more polished handcuffs—was arrested for pocketing the funds meant for the hospital, the community’s foundation. The city buzzed with disbelief, as if the truth itself was yet another ghost story.

This Halloween, we’re reminded that the real horror isn’t hiding in haunted houses but in the seats of our government. They smile for cameras, suck the blood of public funds, and vanish into the night when accountability comes knocking. The sigben of today wear ostentatious, thickly-labeled perfume instead of the creature’s stench, but their odor is just as nauseating—they reek of greed, deceit, and apathy. At least the mythical beast had the shame to hide between its hind legs; our leaders, it seems, do not. The true horrors don’t come out only at night—they clock in at nine, swear oaths at noon, and sign budgets at three. And we, the people, too often look away, choosing silence over confrontation, comfort over courage.

Until now. 

There is a knock on the door. 

The same hollow sound, patient this time. No longer a warning, but an invitation: a chance to open the door and see the truth standing there unmasked. The monsters we fear are born not out of superstition but of our silence, and the real horror is what we allow to thrive when we pretend to look away.

By Poimen Agnila || Illustration by Zenas Agnila

Dear Grief,

I’ve met you once or twice before. Though, it was in books or movies, where I could turn back a few pages or rewind a few minutes, and things would return to how they were. Within these stories, there would be some sort of foreshadowing—events leading up to a character’s passing that would have made sense in hindsight. Inside these fictional worlds, death was nothing but a narrative tool, something I could escape by closing the book or pausing the movie. 

Turns out, that’s not how it works in real life. 

I met you again almost three months ago; it was the real you this time. You arrived through a Messenger call the night before a life-defining examination. Every college admissions Facebook page had advised me to get a good night’s rest on the eve of the test, but how could I when the shock was still pulsing through my veins?

Grief, I grew to hate you. You came uninvited in the form of a faded-out word written on the Speech Lab whiteboard—a remnant of the handwriting that has brought many stories to life. You lingered inside the 11-C classroom, flooding it with memories of an English research class I swear had only happened yesterday. You haunted the hallway outside the publication office; I walked its length to relive conversations that now exist only in memory. In these spaces, you weren’t just Grief but also Regret, Frustration, Fear, Anger, and Hopelessness. 

No matter how often I told you to leave, you’d come knocking on my door, begging to come inside. So, I ignored you in my attempt to seem strong and composed. I pretended it didn’t hurt when I first heard someone refer to him in the past tense. I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat when I had to leaf through photos for a tribute. I blinked back the tears and put on a brave face when you barged through the door on the days when I felt like I could keep it together.

Exhausted at having to constantly lock you out, I decided to let you in. And only after sitting with you through quiet moments of mourning did you reveal who you also were—Love. 

You held my hand as I cried over moments when this love played in the background: unwinding in a public park in Abuyog after a grueling contest day, peeling freshly harvested Indian mangoes inside the PEHM faculty room, and having a late-night talk about dreams and what it takes to achieve them. You sat with me as I realized that all the pain I felt was just the patience, kindness, and acceptance I received but never got to thank. All the times you interrupted my life were just you trying to help me remember that there is Grief because there is Love; we only suffer so much because we’ve been given the amazing opportunity to have known someone so incredible. 

As long as I’ll live, I’ll carry you with me. There will be days when you will feel like Grief and some when you will feel like Love. But either way, you are proof of what once was here, and for that, I am forever grateful. I may not be able to rewind the seconds or flip back the pages, but I take great comfort in knowing that, in this story, I had once been a fortunate recipient of a love that did not know how to give up. 

Grief, for the longest time, I had been ashamed of you. I kept looking forward to the day I would no longer feel the ache that his absence left, but thank you for reassuring me that being sad is nothing to be embarrassed about. Missing someone so much to the point of pain is proof that I had a person worth loving in the first place. The loss does not make the love any less real; if anything, it only amplifies it.

My words are a little too late for the person I’ve lost, so I write this in the hope that you stay with me, Grief. I will open the door when you come knocking because the pain that you bring is also a reminder of the life that once shaped mine. I will welcome you like an old friend because that is exactly what you are, for I understand now that you are just Love in a different form—something that stays even when everything’s gone away.

With all my heart,

Poimen